


It Burns {The Reappearance of the Dark Mark}

by PerfidiouslySnatching



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Death Eaters, Demons, F/M, Family Drama, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28293807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerfidiouslySnatching/pseuds/PerfidiouslySnatching
Summary: Voldemort mysteriously fell in 1980, forcing both loyal and disloyal followers alike to sweep up the trails of crimes they had left behind in the First War.So many years have gone by that society has rebuilt. Yet the Dark Mark is starting to feel the same as it did back then...———7 daily scenarios of the Dark Mark returning.Day 1: Bellatrix LestrangeDay 2: Lucius MalfoyDay 3: Theodore Nott SrDay 4: Alecto CarrowDay 5: Euphemia RowleDay 6: Barty Crouch JrDay 7: Severus Snape
Relationships: Alecto Carrow & Amycus Carrow, Bartemius Crouch Jr. & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Euphemia Rowle & Thorfinn Rowle, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Mrs Nott/Nott Sr. (Harry Potter)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. The Mark of Bellatrix Lestrange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I've been waiting in this silence  
>  While you’re sleeping  
> Until you believe  
> Where are you, where are you?  
> In the maw, in a world so dirty_  
> -[“Maw,” Chelsea Wolfe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=be9I7QJDHLA)

Sometimes, even when one has received a life sentence, one still counts it down. Most people have not managed to survive Azkaban this long, however. Rodolphus says we have been here thirteen years. He would know. He has fared the best of the three of us. I would like to say I am surviving second-best. _Thirteen years_. Unlucky thirteen, so they say. Perhaps I shall succumb to the dementors within the annum. They have taken all but one thing from me, and that one thing is what helps me persevere.

It is my Dark Mark, burned into my skin all those years ago, proof that I had been worthy to serve Him. The dementors will rip out my soul sooner than anyone could rip this Mark from my body.

Will He ever return? Did He truly die?

It is blasphemous to doubt Him. I bury my doubt before it buries me. I do not doubt. I must not doubt. He lives. He merely lives in a way we mortals cannot understand.

I stare at the outline of the skull and the serpent on the soft of my forearm. I have pressed my lips to this scar every morning that I have mind enough to know that I still exist. I loved Him. No, I _love_ Him. This morning, the Mark is dark and warm against my lips. Can He feel my kisses, the way He did long ago?

Before the dementors take away this glimmering happiness, I must make myself known to Him. “I am here,” I whisper, leaving out all of the phrases I could add —

 _I am_ _barely_ _here. I am_ _hardly_ _alive. My mind has been buried_ _._

“I am here,” I declare, trying to find any sliver of strength in my voice. “I have never left You.”


	2. The Mark of Lucius Malfoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _All the things that you needed from me  
>  All the things that you wanted for me  
> All the things that I should’ve given  
> But I didn’t  
> Oh, darling, make it go away_  
> -[“This Woman’s Work,” Kate Bush](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSCQPSrlNbk)

I’ve been in this meeting with the Minister and company for one hour and three minutes. We are trying to reach an agreement regarding the reallocation of my money from the ridiculous Muggle Liaison Office to the _rest_ of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. (Officials have been complaining that I did not _specify_ how my funds were to be distributed and that I was going to cause an _audit_ ).

At one hour and four minutes of this dreadful meeting, an irritation prickles my arm. I’m inclined to think Arthur Weasley has brought in fleas.

At one hour and five minutes, the irritation localises in the centre of my left forearm. It makes this meeting even less comfortable, but I am mid-sentence with the financial staff and can do little except rub my arm. I mustn’t draw too much attention to it.

Last I heard, the Dark Lord was “immaterial.” Merlin knows anyone who’s “immaterial” is lucky enough to not be bogged down with Ministry dealings.

At one hour and six minutes, it burns.

It burns as the meeting is adjourned, and though I have got my way in the meeting, it seems my luck is about to change.

It burns as I leave the premises, and it burns as I arrive at the front gardens of my home. That home houses my wife and child. My skin houses a permanent brand.

Ever so delicately, I roll up my cloak sleeve, followed by my shirt. The layers of bunched fabric squeeze and constrict my blood supply but do not stop the flow of magic. I am shocked to see it. Yes, it is called the Dark Mark, but it has not been this dark in over a decade.

_How do I tell Narcissa_?

My first instinct... it’s to apologise.


	3. The Mark of Theodore Nott Sr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _On sleepless roads, the sleepless go  
>  May angels lead you in  
> So what would you think of me now?_  
> -[“Hear You Me,” Jimmy Eat World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pQo9OQlIB8)
> 
> Notes: sex mention

My marriage was arranged towards the end of the First War, when nobody knew it was “towards the end.” My wife was many years my junior, and I did not deserve her. I scarcely knew her as Rupilia Yaxley before she became Rupilia Nott.

I did fall in love with her on the day of our wedding. Her wonderful sense of humour and quirkiness overcame me.

“How pure-blooded this whole thing is,” she whispered to me in her white gown. “They are only marrying me off because of the war.”

Thank the gods she did not know the parts I _had_ played and _did_ play in that war.

“Let’s not become nuisances to each other, now, Mr Nott,” my new wife had giggled.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs Nott.”

And just so I wouldn’t become a nuisance, I made love to her in absolute darkness once we were comfortable with each other, to keep her from seeing the Mark upon my arm. I regret that my behaviour left her wondering if I wanted her.

I wanted her more than anything. I wanted to start a normal life and a normal family. I told her about my normal job, and how I “worked overtime” to explain my lateness. I wanted to forget how the Knights of Walpurgis became something worse. When the Dark Lord — a.k.a. _Tom from school_ — perished, I thought I was free. The timing was perfect, for our son was born. My Mark faded to a scar, and only then did I tell Rupilia. The version I told her was full of lies.

When our son was just a boy, he watched a Muggle automobile collide with his mother’s body and kill her. And now that my Dark Mark is burning again… well, I am ready.


	4. The Mark of Alecto Carrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Could you flag me down and beg me to  
>  Drop what I’m doing and sit beside you?  
> So did, did they  
> Teach us and leave us with nothin’ to say?  
> Where we will wait for friends and family  
> To pass away or come in handy_  
> -[“Family and Genus,” Shakey Graves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T4LF7vx9oSk)

It’s September, not long after the riots Malfoy started at the World Cup. Our nieces are out of our hair. I’m at the cauldron making broad bean soup.

“Smells terrible, Alliecat,” Amycus chuckles as he awakens from his nap at the table.

“Last thing you made _correctly_ was mushy peas,” I say.

Amycus has more trouble getting up from his seat each year. We’re only 43.

“You make old man noises when you move, Am.”

He nudges me out of the way and starts frying the bacon for me. When he’s done, he crumbles it into the cauldron and smiles. And then he frowns. He really, really frowns.

“Hey, you been over this hot cauldron too long, Allie. Go have a seat.”

It _is_ hot. In fact, I might’ve splashed hot soup on my arm. I step towards the sink. Amycus does not take his eyes from me until he winces in pain and grabs _his_ arm. I suddenly see what the problem is.

I wasn’t burnt with soup. My Dark Mark is charred black. My chest, stomach, and head all churn with panic as Amycus rolls up his sleeve to reveal that his matches.

 _Get it off him_.

Amycus runs cold water onto a tea towel and presses it to my arm. My black scar does not fade or cool. If not mine, then...

 _Get it off him_.

My teeth begin to grind. The Dark Lord once welcomed us only to pass us over, time and time again, in favour of “better” families. People he could use because they looked good and could play multiple political roles. What were we? Two pairs of feet to be mistreated.

“It’s gonna be okay, Alecto.”

“No it ain’t,” I cry. “He’s s’posed to be gone, Amycus. _He_ ’ _s supposed to be dead_.”


	5. The Mark of Euphemia Rowle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Lo, let that night be desolate; let no joyful voice come therein  
>  Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to rouse up Leviathan_  
> \- Job 3:8
> 
> Music rec: [“Song of the Madwoman on the Seashore,” Charles-Valentin Alkan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ybaYWWfsXE)

I awaken to the sound of an owl outside my window. It is Azkaban’s owl. No one outside Azkaban contacts me. It is too early an hour for Rodolphus; thus, the letter is only from my brother, Thorfinn. He can wait.

I look outside. Beyond the edge of the cliff is a cross sea, textured like grey-blue quilt squares. New weather is on its way then. I debate using the sea state to wreck another Muggle ship. In my theurgy, such a sacrifice appeases the lone female amongst the Princes of Hell. It is Leviathan I serve, for I, too, feel like the lone female amongst my hellish companions. (Bellatrix suffers pitiably in prison, and Alecto, that vomitous thing, owes my family and my god a debt she seems disinclined to pay).

The owl becomes more insistent. I can almost hear Thorfinn complaining about each moment I delay, “Euphemia, damn it!”

Thorfinn is younger than me. Being firstborn, I inherited the house at Rowle Ridge, which sits at the very end of Scotland. It is not far from the prison our ancestor founded only to ironically house many of his descendants. Prior to his imprisonment, Thorfinn owned a finer house than me. He lived too lavish a life, Azkaban has taught him. I open his letter.

> _Effie,_
> 
> _It burns again. If he lives, this is wonderful news. Does yours burn?_
> 
> _\- Thorfinn_

No, my Mark does not burn. The Dark Lord’s magic has always found difficulty with my body. This is what happens when one tries to serve two gods at once. I roll my sleeve and press my palm to the scar. Though still pale on my skin, the magic _is_ alive after all these years.

I reply to my brother:-

> _When the helm moves, Thorfinn, we must answer it._


	6. The Mark of Bartemius Crouch Jr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I can’t wait, I’m salty  
>  But I’m silver on the leaves before the rain  
> I’ll wait, I’ll come back, I’m green  
> I’m okay on my feet, I know the way  
> But I’m given a sign, I’m given a sign,  
> And I’m going outside, I’m going outside_  
> -[“Given a Sign,” Loma](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEMLKtuYaFk)

When I was a little boy, my mother told me that I was a genius with a beautiful mind. She told me I had the kind of mind that could change the world.

My father told me that my mind gave me several maladies of temperament. He told me that the door to my brain had a loose hinge.

Both my mother and my father were correct.

It is my father, now, who controls my brain. He has snaked his way through my sulci and has torn up my meninges like a neuroparasite. My prognosis is poor.

I have moved from one prison to the next. The dementors were pleasanter on my psyche than Father. Father did not keep my childhood bedroom the way it was when I left the house at seventeen. I spend my days surrounded by boxes of expensive but useless trinkets he collects. I keep thinking, “I want to go home,” but I barely remember what that is. Each day I am a belligerent in the psychic war against my father. Each day I have lost.  Today I win.

I remember things. I almost feel myself. I am not Barty Crouch. That is  _ his  _ name, not mine. I am not Crouch’s slave; I am somebody else’s loyal servant. I am not Crouch’s dishonour; I am somebody else’s pride and joy. Before Crouch, before the dementors, I was once loved.

A perfect rush of warmth traces along my skin, and my numbed mind tries to latch to the sensation. I stare at my left forearm for twenty minutes as my skin watercolours to deeper and deeper hues. With a sudden splash of black, a splash of memory reminds me what the scar once was.

My Dark Mark. It is a  _ birthmark _ I inherited from my true Father.


	7. The Mark of Severus Snape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _These eyes see carmine through concrete masks  
>  Amid fantasies of strangers, I'm indulging myself  
> This fractious fever is fervent with feelings of extinction  
> This violence is silenced by consequence  
> Keep these secrets in my skin_  
> -[“Warpath,” Esben and the Witch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyocQey5y8g)

No, I cannot say I’m surprised. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised. If the Dark Lord had figured out a way to lodge himself in the back of Quirrell’s head, I trust that he knows how to call his most faithful back to him. As of yet, we’ve received no formal summon. He is merely making his presence known. Discolouration there, a burn here. I am certain he will choose to summon us when we are all sleep-deprived and off-guard. Correction: I am always on guard. I am also always sleep-deprived.

Igor Karkaroff, the world’s greatest snitch, may as well have asked me to the Yule Ball with as much of my time as he demanded at the event. ‘ _Oh, but look,_ ’ he’d whimpered, lifting his sleeve for a millisecond. ‘ _Yes, I know_ ,’ I’d responded endlessly. It was that rotten part of goodness in me that led me to offer to explain his absence at what I am now calling our _upcoming meeting_. What am I going to say, you ask? I am going to say his self-imposed exile ought to be double the length of time everyone has served in Azkaban due to his words. I can only hope that my own wit and ‘loyalty’ will prevent our Lord from giving formal orders to kill Karkaroff. You and I both know that will not prevent others from pursuing independent revenge.

You question my indifference to the upcoming war.

If either side wins _or_ loses, I still lose. I am defined by loss. I cannot win back time.

I know how much you want me to make some show of fear. Is it because you want proof I am still human? I need not fear; I perfectly understand the gravity of the situation. But I am more ‘clever’ than ‘human,’ Headmaster.


End file.
